Pranati's POV

I hadn’t slept for two nights. 

Not since that night. 

Not since I found out it was Him—the quiet, smiling, sweet-spoken. My senior in college. The boy from our village who everyone called “gentle,” who never raised his voice, who brought me chai without asking during group study sessions. Who once sketched me in charcoal, laughing under the college rooftop rain, and gifted it to me on my birthday, shyly saying it was nothing. 

I had smiled politely then, not thinking twice. Because he was always around. Like furniture. Familiar. Safe. 

I had mistaken proximity for safety. 

Now, even the silhouettes of the trees outside my window looked like figures watching me breathe. The rustle of the neem leaves made my heart leap in my chest. My own shadow felt foreign. 

The entire house had changed. The air was heavier. Every corner held a hush, like the walls themselves were afraid to speak too loud. 

People walked quieter. Talked softer. Ate with eyes lowered. 

Even the cousins—Mahesh and Sai, who were usually loud and chaotic, who once made a bet over who could run fastest to the temple and back—they barely said a word around me now. Anu, who was always sarcastic, kept throwing glances my way like she didn’t know what to say, like she didn’t want to say the wrong thing. 

I hadn’t gone down since that night. I couldn’t. 

I didn’t trust myself to face the world yet. 

And Shravan? He hadn’t come to see me. 

Not once. 

And I didn’t know if I wanted him to. 

Because the last time I saw him, his eyes were red. Not with tears. With shame. With silence. With the weight of a thousand words he didn’t say when they would’ve mattered. 

He had laughed with him. Shared chai with him. Called him “bro.” 

While I was upstairs—being watched. While someone stepped through the lines of my privacy like they were suggestions, not boundaries. 

Even if it wasn’t his fault— 

It felt like betrayal. 

I sat curled in Satya akkas room, my forehead pressed to my knees. The sheets smelled of sandalwood and agarbatti, a scent that used to feel like home. 

Now it felt like nostalgia for safety. 

A soft knock came at the door. 

I didn’t move. I didn’t respond. 

The door creaked open. 

And I heard him before I saw him. 

Siddharth. 

His footsteps were slow, measured. Like he didn’t want to startle me. 

He didn’t say anything. Just placed a warm tumbler of milk beside me on the nightstand. Then he sat on the floor—a few feet away, back to the bed, elbows resting on his knees. 

We sat like that for a long time. 

Him facing the quiet room. Me facing the dark behind my eyelids. 

That was the thing about Siddharth. He didn’t fill silence with noise. He didn’t treat pain like something that needed fixing. 

He just sat in it with you. 

Eventually, I whispered, "I don’t think I can ever sleep alone again." 

He didn’t look at me. Didn’t turn. 

He simply said, "Then don’t." 

I blinked. 

"What does that mean?" 

He turned his head, just enough to meet my eyes. 

"I’ll sit outside your door every night till you can." 

It wasn’t a romantic line. It wasn’t said to impress. 

It wasn’t even about him wanting me. 

It was about protecting me. 

It was love—stripped bare of flowers and candlelight and all the glitter. Raw. Quiet. Real. 

My hands shook as I reached for the tumbler. He didn’t help me. He let me hold it myself. Let me be strong even in my brokenness. 

I sipped slowly. 

"I feel stupid," I whispered. 

"You’re not." 

"I should’ve known. The notes. The photos. The shampoo bottle that wasn’t mine. I thought I was being paranoid." My throat tightened. "And worse… I accused you. I thought you were the one behind it." 

A flicker passed over his face. Hurt. But not anger. 

"I don’t blame you." 

"But I do," I said. "You’re the only one who’s never made me feel small. And I doubted you." 

He moved a little closer, resting his arms on the bed’s edge. His voice was steady. "You were scared. You don’t need to apologize for how your fear spoke. I didn’t care what you thought about me. I only cared that you were safe." 

No one had ever spoken to me like that. 

Not even Shravan. 

Siddharth wasn’t asking for anything. He wasn’t seeking recognition or forgiveness. He was just there. Solid. Unmoving. Steady like the earth. 

"Siddharth," I said. 

He lifted a brow slightly. 

I looked away. My heart fluttered like it didn’t know how to be in this body. 

"Nothing. Thank you." 

He didn’t push. 

He never did. 

He just waited until I finished the milk, then quietly turned off the lamp, got up, and left the room. 

But I saw him through the small crack in the door. 

He sat on the chair outside. Elbows on knees. Head bowed slightly. Guarding the night like a sentinel. 

And for the first time in two nights— 

I slept. 

** 

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the pale yellow curtains. I stirred, the heaviness in my chest a little lighter. My limbs still sore from the storm of emotion, but there was air in my lungs again. 

A small folded note lay on the floor, just under the door. 

Not in the harsh, scrawling handwriting that had haunted me. 

This was neat. Firm. Gentle. 

Siddharth. 

I opened it with trembling fingers. 

If it ever feels like the ground beneath you is falling, 

I’ll be the one to stand still. 

You don’t have to break alone, Pranati. 

~S. 

I folded it carefully, pressed it to my chest for a moment, and tucked it into the back pages of my diary. 

A place reserved for things I didn’t know how to say aloud. 

Later that afternoon, I stepped out of Satakka’s room for the first time. The corridor was empty. The hall quiet, only Nannamma’s distant voice reciting a prayer echoing faintly. 

I walked slowly, fingers trailing against the cool wall. 

And then I saw him. 

Shravan. 

Leaning against the pillar near the kitchen. His eyes were swollen. His usually bright face looked drained of all color. He looked like someone who had seen something beautiful and shattered it with his own hands. 

He opened his mouth. 

"Pranu—" 

I walked past him. 

Not out of spite. 

Not out of anger. 

But because I wasn’t ready. 

Not for his guilt. 

Not for his love. 

Not yet. 

 ***

It’s been ten days since the incidence with Pravin.  

The wedding was two weeks away. 

Fourteen days. 

It sounded so ordinary. Just another number. But every time someone said it—"just two more weeks, Pranu!"—it felt like someone was closing the lid on a box I couldn’t escape from. 

I looked at the engagement ring on my finger. Simple. Elegant. It fit perfectly. 

But it didn’t feel like it was mine. 

"Pranati!" Amma called from the courtyard. "They’re coming with the sarees today, don’t go anywhere!" 

I nodded automatically. 

All around me, the village buzzed with pre-wedding rituals. Padmaakka’s house was lit up like it was already Deepavali. Rangolis, laughter, the scent of jasmine everywhere. 

Akkas fluttered from one room to another discussing flowers, photographers, mehendi artists. 

Shravan hadn’t stopped smiling in two days. 

I had. 

Later that evening, I stepped into the backyard to breathe. 

The neem tree cast long shadows. The breeze had that warm, sticky monsoon scent—mud, mango leaves, and firewood. 

I closed my eyes. 

"Don’t stand there alone." 

My breath caught. 

That voice. That low, calm voice I could recognize even in my sleep. 

I turned. 

Siddharth. 

He stood a few feet away in a pale grey kurta, arms folded, eyes fixed on me—not intense, not cold. 

Just... present. 

I hadn’t spoken to him much since that night. 

Not because I didn’t want to. 

But because I didn’t know how to. 

How do you go back to casual conversations with the man who sat outside your door so you could sleep without fear? 

"Do you always appear out of thin air?" I tried to tease. 

He gave a soft huff. "Only when someone looks like they’re trying to disappear." 

I looked away. 

"Do I?" I asked. 

He didn’t answer. 

Instead, he walked closer and handed me something. 

A folded note. 

Not handwritten this time. A small printed email. 

I blinked, confused, and unfolded it. 

Pranati, 

 You’re still not safe. You think the engagement changes anything? You think he’ll protect you? You have no idea what I can do. 

You will belong to me. 

 - P 

My stomach dropped. 

The letter slipped from my fingers. 

"Where did you get this?" I whispered. 

"It was mailed to my work email," Siddharth said, voice tighter than usual. "This morning." 

"Why would he—how would he know your office—?" 

"Because he’s not finished yet, Pranati." 

I backed up a step. My hands shook again. 

Siddharth reached out—gently—but I flinched. 

He paused. 

"I’m sorry," I whispered, ashamed. "It’s not you. I just—" 

"I know," he said softly. "You don’t have to explain." 

I felt like crying. 

I didn’t. But I wanted to. 

And in that moment, I hated everything—the ring on my finger, the heavy sarees lined up in my room, the aunties gossiping about my “dream wedding”, the name Shravan being spoken like a magic word. 

"I don’t want to do this," I whispered. 

Siddharth’s eyes snapped to mine. 

I didn’t even realize I’d said it aloud. 

"You don’t want to marry him?" His voice was barely audible. 

I couldn’t reply. 

Because I didn’t know what I wanted. 

All I knew was that Siddharth looked at me like I mattered. Like I wasn’t a prize or a burden. Like I was… real. 

And that terrified me more than anything. 

Before he could say anything, we heard someone call from the front courtyard. 

"Shravan’s here!" 

Siddharth stiffened. 

I stepped back instinctively, wiping at my face. 

When I turned, Shravan was already walking toward me. 

"I’ve been looking for you everywhere," he said, beaming. He glanced at Siddharth briefly, then reached for my hand—casually, like he had a right to it now. 

I didn’t pull away. 

But I didn’t smile either. 

Siddharth's jaw flexed. 

Shravan looked between us, eyes narrowing slightly. 

"What were you both talking about?" 

"The Stalker," Siddharth said evenly, his tone instantly shifting to formal. 

Shravan’s smile faded. 

He looked at me, suddenly alert. "What about him?" 

"Another email," Siddharth said before I could lie. "Sent to me this time." 

Shravan’s entire expression changed. The playfulness vanished. 

"Did you show it to the police?" 

"I will tomorrow. I didn’t want to scare her tonight." 

Too late, I thought bitterly. 

Shravan nodded tightly, then turned to me, softer. "Don’t worry, Pranu. I’ll take care of it. He won’t come near you again." 

He squeezed my hand again, too tight. 

I managed a nod. 

But as I looked over Shravan’s shoulder… my eyes found Siddharth again. 

He hadn’t moved. 

But something in his gaze had. 

Like a line had been drawn. 

Later that night, as the cousins danced to loud music on the rooftop, I sat on the edge, arms around my knees, letting the wind knot my hair. 

Shravan’s laughter floated through the air. 

I couldn’t stop thinking about the email. 

The way Pravin’s words sounded like a promise. 

But worse than that… I couldn’t stop thinking about Siddharth. 

The way his hand had hovered when I flinched. 

The way he hadn’t judged me. 

The way he looked at me like I already belonged to him—even if he’d never say it out loud. 

And for the first time, I whispered something I didn’t expect—into the wind, where no one could hear: 

“I wish it was you.” 

Hello my pretty ladies. How is the update do leave your opinion and also please like the chapters though the previous chp hadn't received much likes. Nevermind. If this chapter gets 50 likes i'll update tomorrow itself. Thank you guys.